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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944994">Alt-Circa: Crusade</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sxtoritera/pseuds/Sxtoritera'>Sxtoritera</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Guilty Gear</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-02-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 10:20:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>780</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22944994</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sxtoritera/pseuds/Sxtoritera</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>To which Captain Ky Kiske makes a stand-unbeknownst to his weak heart, humanity is monstrous too, taking form of a Vixen in red.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Alt-Circa: Crusade</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Hello! This work was a small inspiration to which Ky encounters the rage of the crusades.  Honestly, I was a mess for typing this on a whim.  But, I feel like alternate-timelines are something worth delving.  I hope you enjoy!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Marbled spires fractioned in heights, no longer akin to the Heavens aspired to soar.  Gilded monuments; bounteous riches of historical revenue—legacy: rendered to relics beneath the masking malodorous fumes of sulfur seething flesh and carbon.  Towering abominations, once adhered as man's gift stormed Rome in hordes.  Smog wafting through cracks of the maw; golem-like cells dealing monumental impact on the fragile Earth.  These creatures—these GEARS—were once Man, like we.  A twisted turn in scientific ascension, interspersed man and beast, converging them into tools of mass destruction.  Their voices: muddled.  Inalienable rights: expired.   Years of pleading, subject to despot abuse had finally peaked its climax.  A voice condemns itself as Liberty and muses a revolt through immovable Pathos.  A moniker hexed in her remembrance; the Herald of Destruction: Justice.  Cries of men fell upon dying ears.  Outstretched extremities fell shy of God's mercy.  Baroque-restored walls of Archbasilica: St. John Lateran, trembled and caved with the tremors and embers, marking the last of native architecture.  Resounding chimes of bronze bells traversed the trembling hearts of soldiers in the wake of their decline.  Gusts of murkiness and black surface, come impact of the heel of a soot-covered boot.  A prelude of beautiful tragedy; God giveth a gift, man urged for excess—and he taketh away.  Aspirations dwindled; faiths questioned in absence of a savior only confided when in want—neglectful of need and courtesy.  Nevertheless, for a race of adaptable bounds—whom free will and reprise been gifted, albeit their desperation they chose to fight and salvage, all for the sake of finite glory; history repeats itself.<br/><br/>Holy Knights, supposedly devout to a path of righteousness, turned a blind eye and muted their ears to brethren's peril.  Probability wasn't on their side and risk came with no profit.  An onlooker couldn't dismiss the nagging insight:<br/><br/><em>This is not how human beings should act.<br/></em><br/>Be what lies ahead inevitable, one young man's heart did not waiver.  His build lithe—much smaller than the rest.  Hues comparable to the Mediterranean sea in vibrancy and tendrils like the rays of its complimenting sun, such a handsome face.  Considerably young, estimated no greater than fifteen years of age, he adorned a heart on his sleeve.  His hand embraced a Golden crucifix, tiers blessed upon the symbolic saint who sacrificed himself for humanity's sins—shamed to confess, they have danced with misconduct again.  No home to run to, giving that up for what he perceived as just; he adopted the handle of a sword, unnerved by how grand a weight it bore.  A prodigal child with book smarts to back him, mastered elements of magic at a ripe age—promoted to a ranked commander.  A profound future defiled behind his back, courteous of an insidious ruby painted smirk.<br/><br/>Previous to the turmoil, the knights came upon a woman presumably in need of rescue.  As chivalry goes, this unknown maiden became a priority.  Their actions soon reflected with reward; this woman embodied breathtaking abilities.  Motivation buds in the hearts of tired men, visioning this woman as the pivot to turn around their grim days, they gladly accept her request to assist;<br/><br/>Assist whom?<br/>Irony's flavor: bittersweet.<br/><br/>One after another, knights succumb to defeat—drenched, torn asunder and weighted by the grip of gravity.  The frigid rubble allayed the numbing pulsation of knots and welts, slipping the inflicted to eternal sleep.  A boy's delicate hands, tainted in crimson.  The bliss of childhood pillaged by the rage of war.  Fear enthused him forth in acts of bravery; knowing there were many lives to be saved.  Woes fueled him to allay the souls of what's been severed.  His arm could reach but so far to those in need, but should they lay in his visage: he'd extend...<br/><br/>Fatigue vexed his body to forego, retreat and seek repose.  His conscience refused to capitulate.  He staggered on a limp, jaw clenching in the filth of sediment and plasma.  He turns to what compelled him: his faith, and chants a silent prayer:<br/><br/><em>Be it one person, if not many—<br/>so someone could be promised another day...</em><br/><br/>Surges of electricity coursed the length of his blade.  The young man, Kiske, made his final stand.   His smite said to split the heavens in a blare comparable to Zeus came with no reinforcement.  All power dwindling from a lively child-soon-to-be-corpse, his waning vision set upon that cherry smirk.  An invidious anachronistic anomaly standing before him simpering with a disgustingly euphoric gleam to her countenance hushed him; pitied him... forsaken him.  His vocals raspy, shrapnel lodged at the throat.  Senses fade to black before he could receive her name...<br/><br/><br/><b>Battle of Rome: </b>2173,<br/><b>Ky Kiske: </b>deceased.</p>
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